The Fall
by AbbyCadabra1
Summary: Angel grieves over his beloved... No Spoilers.


Rating: PG  
  
Disclaimer: Characters (although not named) do not belong to me  
  
Spoilers: Nothing  
  
Summary: Angel grieves over his beloved.  
  
Feedback: Don't make me beg! I will though...  
  
  
  
Angst Alert! Turn back now if you do not want to be depressed.  
  
  
  
Upon dampen earth you stand—statuesque, lifeless, and forever cold. The pliable soil beneath your feet isn't the only thing that has become moist and weighed down with superfluous emotions. Your soul drips with the excess despondency that cascades over your shattered strength and floods that place in your heart that was recently excavated. Flooded with wretchedness is your affection.  
  
Falling.  
  
Memories—endless, they are—abound your already cluttered and weakened mind. Warm smiles and gentle sighs echo and reverberate through the void in your chest that had been love. Empty is your heart yet crowded is your mind. Was it really so very long ago that those roles were reversed? Swarming with wickedness is your mentality.  
  
Falling.  
  
Guilt, your closest and most loathsome companion, has in no way forsaken you. The vampire with a soul is nevertheless guilt's most beloved host. Her death lies on your shoulders like the intangible and unconquerable burden it is—Weights brutally tied to your ankles that are dragging you beneath the thin surface of reality because it was your fault. Overburdened by self-blame is your strength.  
  
Falling.  
  
The cold air that surrounds your form seems especially dark tonight. No matter though, you're damned to spend an eternity condemned to the never changing blackness that is the night—and your spirit. It wasn't always this way, you're aware. There was once a sunlight that brightened your bleak and drawn out existence. Rays of ranting logic and whimsical perception would beam down upon your cold skin and warm you from the inside out. But everything has returned to darkness again. Scorched by death is your sunlight.  
  
Falling.  
  
She called you a Champion. But who really was the champion? Who deemed the life of a stranger more precious than their own and sacrificed not only their life but also their soul? Who stared into the hellish eyes of the Grim Reaper and spit in his face? Not you. Revoked is your title of Champion.  
  
Falling.  
  
Your clenched fists are deeply buried in your pockets, drawing your leather duster around your huddled figure, blanketing more than your body from the cold and pelting rain. You've already let down your guard once and all you have to show for that is the emotionally crippled vampire you have become. Your barricades are once again an unparalleled fortitude that no person, human or otherwise, would ever be able to raze. Impregnable and numb are your defenses.  
  
Falling.  
  
"…A great and dedicated warrior to the mission…" her tombstone says. The mission? You scoff at the once-glorious initiative that you used to deem invaluable and imperative. The mission is all in vain if the reward is dead. Your soul needs not to be redeemed, only evicted. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. Deserted is your redemption.  
  
Falling.  
  
The permanency of this lonely situation has just recently begun to sink in. The awesome magnitude is new to you and the terror has seized your heartstrings, squeezing on for dear life. And isn't that ironic—funny—because your heart is dead, hence, no life to be had. Yet the distinct feeling of suffocation by way of grief is still more than ethereal, it is definite. Gasping and retching for its last breath is your sanity.  
  
Falling.  
  
Your blank and guarded eyes roam over her marble headstone and you reach out to touch the stone with your fingertips. Shivers course the length of your body as cold stone meets even colder skin. Your corpse—you are dead, aren't you?—is overrun with depraved bitterness that freezes your motionless blood. You bring new meaning to the literal and figurative use of the word 'cold.' Frozen has befallen your existence.  
  
Falling.  
  
Your unsteady legs buckle at the knees and you collapse to the soggy ground, soaking your black slacks with filthy rainwater and mud. You're positive that you can feel the muck from underneath seeping through your thin barrier of skin and tainting your blood and bones. And that is quite fitting, because you are fouled with iniquity to the bone. Corrupted has been always been your blood.  
  
Falling.  
  
You brace your upper body with your hands, burrowing them into the wet grass and dirt; strong arms are straight and supporting you. That perpetual ache in your chest is throbbing out of control and constricting useless lungs. A horrendous and indescribable pain overtakes your being. Alas, this torturous agony has become a regular occurrence of late, but the pain still smarts as if you were a virgin to such suffering. Tormented and raw has become your soul.  
  
Falling.  
  
The black sky has become deep purple, signaling the approach of dawn. But you pay the lightening sky and ceased rain no heed, absorbed with your little world of sorrow and anguish. Your eyes are shut tightly, but that still doesn't prevent the tears from escaping. The darkness behind your eyelids slowly transforms to a shadowy scarlet as the sun hits your pale skin, warming it in a way akin to how she had. Your eyes slowly flutter open as your sight takes in the orange and yellow sky. The heat intensifies and the harsh twinge in your soul begins to fade. You lips twist upward slightly as your gaze falls upon the rising sun—your deliverer from this intolerable and tragic survival. Ashes have become you.  
  
Fallen. 


End file.
